


the things we can't find words for

by Noxnthea



Series: soft, sweet, sunshine things [3]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint has graduated from sunshine to being compared to summer, Communication, Idiots in Love, M/M, Poetry, okay well mostly bucky does and it's real sweet okay?, so instead they write poetry to each other, soft things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29567529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noxnthea/pseuds/Noxnthea
Summary: Those things they share through physical affection and written words respectively, Clint’s empathy expressed through a hand on a trembling shoulder, a warm hip sidling along the sofa, a brush of fingertips that stills the shaking that shivers down the former assassin’s spine. Bucky’s understanding uncurls in the shape of letters and lines that bring laughter to freckled cheeks, crinkles to the corners of far-seeing eyes, hollowness and happiness alike to Clint’s fast-beating heart.Clint finds Bucky’s first limerick to him tucked under the case for his hearing aids on his bedside table, torn notebook paper turning up at the edges like its desire to be seen was too eager to lie flat.The progression of a romance told through poetry and pretty prose.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: soft, sweet, sunshine things [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2172792
Comments: 16
Kudos: 35





	the things we can't find words for

**Author's Note:**

> Yesterday my brain said hey, I bet there's a Bucky out there somewhere who is poetic and sweet as hell. You should write about that instead of all the other things you could be doing. 
> 
> Thanks to my discord sprinter buddies who let me snip this softness and reminded me about the existence different types of poems when I tried to write all these.

Bucky starts writing poetry not long after he arrives at the tower.

No-one knows this for much longer, of course; they just know that he’s always hunched over his notebook, a recommendation from his SHIELD mandated therapist, a way to memorialize memories, process emotions, record the words that he struggles to say.

Bucky’s guarded with what he does, reclusive with what he lets others see, protective of the bits of himself he fights to regain, coveting them close like they could slip away if he allows others access to the person he’s deciding he wants to be.

And Clint gets that, he does.

He knows what it’s like to have to make the conscious decision about the type of person he is, what it’s like to decide to discard the dirty pieces and accentuate the positive, what it’s like to blur your eyes to see the forest and not the trees, what it’s like to accept yourself when on paper, the person you are would never make it past any kind of pearly gates.

So that’s why Clint doesn’t press Bucky, doesn’t walk up to him and try to peer over his shoulder the way that Steve does, in that hovering, helpful way he has. That’s why Clint doesn’t tease him about his proclivity for pen and paper like Stark does, in that let-me-bring-you-into-the-modern-century probably actually genuine way he goes about trying to help everyone. That’s why he doesn’t say anything when he and Bucky wander into the same shadowed solitude of a dark living room in the middle of the night, why he silently sits and picks up his fletching kit under the light of the moon through the windows, why he nods in acknowledgement but lets the scritch-scritch of Bucky’s pen soothe away the residual remnants of their nightmares, rhythmically reminding them both of their grounding in the present.

And all of that is why, Clint thinks, Bucky begins to leave him poetry, to share his soul, scratched out on ripped out notebook pages, pressed deep on post-it notes, left for Clint to find in the places where Bucky somehow knows he’ll find them.

Clint stumbles on the first one as he rumbles into the kitchen one morning when half the team is gone on a mission, mumbling about wake up calls and the probable lack of caffeine without a Tony to start the machine in the communal kitchen; he just about crumbles when he finds the coffeepot full, warm to the touch.

It’s after he stood for a solid sixty seconds staring in pleased surprise that he reaches for a mug, grumbling about the manners that Natasha’s drilled into him, that he finds the note, stuck catty-corner to the coffee, hand-writing faint, as if the writer was unsure about the reception of their words.

_Every day coffee_

_A hawk shoots through the air_

_Mission accomplished_

Clint can’t quite decide if his eyes are playing tricks on him, so he unsticks the note from the counter, re-reads it a minimum of seven times, then chugs three cups of coffee consecutively. 

He stands in the kitchen with the fourth cup still steaming beside him, and stares at the words a little longer, tracing the hills and valleys of each letter with eyes that have earned him the life he lives, which are supposed to help him figure out mysteries, show him the way to success, tell him the secrets of his targets.

He’s the target here, though, isn’t he? Clint finds he doesn’t mind, carefully smoothing out the note, sheltering the sounds it makes in his mind, and walks to his room, where he is disappointed to discover he’s messed with the stickiness too much, so it doesn’t stay when he tries to adhere it to his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

He finds a piece of tape to make it stay, instead.

Three days later, he tumbles into his suite after a mission of his own to see another haiku pasted pretty as you please alongside the first, a purple post-it that paralyzes Clint by its presence, makes him pause as a warmth slowly begins to permeate pleasantly throughout his mind, his body, his heart.

* * *

It takes a few weeks for Bucky to open himself up enough to hold full conversations with Clint, but that’s okay. It takes significantly less time for him to find comfort in Clint’s presence, for him to stop tensing when Clint enters the room, for him to share his space the way he shares his words: selectively but completely, cautiously but whole-heartedly.

They talk about all kinds of things that skim the surface of their thoughts, but never dip deeply into their psyches, those anxieties and concerns and conclusions too tender to tear into out loud, as trepidation tormented as they both are.

No, those things they share through physical affection and written words respectively, Clint’s empathy expressed through a hand on a trembling shoulder, a warm hip sidling along the sofa, a brush of fingertips that stills the shaking that shivers down the former assassin’s spine. Bucky’s understanding uncurls in the shape of letters and lines that bring laughter to freckled cheeks, crinkles to the corners of far-seeing eyes, hollowness and happiness alike to Clint’s fast-beating heart.

Clint finds Bucky’s first limerick to him tucked under the case for his hearing aids on his bedside table, torn notebook paper turning up at the edges like its desire to be seen was too eager to lie flat.

_If the world could see inside my head_

_People would twist and turn; filled with dread_

_But in front of your eyes_

_There’s no need for disguise_

_Like a book known by one I am read_

It takes Clint several long minutes to find the strength to put the poem down, and his hand hovers, twitching reflexively over the raw humanity it shares with him. There’s a maelstrom inside of him that he has to dissect before he can still the pounding in his chest, breaking apart each thundercloud of sentiment, interrupting each interval of emotion, before the storm settles into something that feels strangely like contentment.

* * *

The morning after the first time they sleep together, Clint wakes to an empty bed, soft sheets cool beside him, the indentation of Bucky’s body already fading, the proof of his presence worn out by Clint’s shifting in the sunlight, sleepy contortions wiping away the imprint of his existence in Clint’s space.

Clint feels his absence like a piece of himself is missing, like the tenuous trust they’ve built over months of tentative talking and sharing and feeling has snapped in an instant, like there’s a cavern inside his chest that used to contain hope and now shelters only the dark, despairing dragon that is the depression Clint hasn’t allowed control over his emotions in such a long, long time.

Clint feels his absence like it’s an inevitability.

Like he should have known better.

Like he was maybe only fooling himself this whole time.

Like he probably deserves this.

It’s not until hours later when he finally shakes himself out of the stupor that’s kept him shackled to the bed all day that he wanders into the closet, and there, nestled into the friendly folds of his favorite hoodie is a scrap of paper covered in chicken-scratch, hasty hands making the words bleed together, a pair of couplets pronouncing everything Clint wishes he’d opened his eyes to this morning.

_When the sunlight breaks over you_

_My heart can’t fathom what to do_

_When the pitch of your heart beats in harmony with mine_

_I wonder; what was I worried about all this time?_

Bucky still doesn’t know how to do confrontations or confessions; Clint doesn’t really either, to be fair. Neither of them know how to vocalize their thoughts with any real verbosity; neither of them would win a word war with Tony, not in the heat of the moment when wit can settle an argument and proclaim a victor.

But that’s okay.

That’s not who they are; that’s not how they show each other their intelligence, their compassion, their hearts.

Clint brings the note up to his chest and wills the words to sink in, as if holding it close long enough will impress this feeling into his mind forever, locking on, latching the lid closed against doubt, an impenetrable reminder that what they have is strong enough to stand its ground against everything; it’s a piecemeal, patchwork way of communicating, but it’ll last through it all, through the teasing of their peers and the temptation of their fears.

* * *

When Clint goes on missions, sometimes he goes dark for days, the delicacy of a situation too fragile to be fractured by communication with the people back home. When he can, though, Bucky sends him reminders of just how much he matters to his person back home, as though rhymes and rhythmic words will wrap Clint in caution and care, a blanket that will bring him back safe and sound.

The first one he gets buzzing on his phone startles a chuckle out of him, a caw that Natasha flicks him for, an uncontainable bubble that bursts out and makes the rest of the crew whip around to look at him.

_C-cautious and careful_

_L- loves mindfulness and taking his time_

_I- in no way, shape, or form prepared to be an idiot_

_N- not in need of a reminder of the plan because he’ll follow it to the T_

_T- takes care of himself when I can’t be there_

He hoards the message close and tells JARVIS to print it out for when he gets home, saves it as his phone background so that even in moments where they don’t have service, he can click the side button and Bucky’s love can shine at him in one glaring, child-like acrostic admonition that okay, yeah, maybe makes him take a little extra care and pay a little more attention to what he’s supposed to be doing.

* * *

Bucky doesn’t often read his poetry out loud, which is why Clint knows that the moment is extra special when Bucky turns to him, hands shaking, fingers clenching frightened around the edges of his notebook, sunset sending tangerine tendrils across his cheekbones, a celestial sympathy trying to steady his shivers. Clint stretches his own hands out, a palm on each forearm, both warmed equally in the afternoon’s sun, metal and flesh alike stilling at his reassurance.

“I wrote a sonnet,” is the first thing that frees itself from Bucky’s clenched teeth, a commitment to speaking that Clint doesn’t want to diminish by dismissing with a suggestion that he could just read it, instead.

“Those are the really fancy ones, right? Like Shakespeare and weird rhyming and pretty things?” It’s an attempt at minimizing, not the moment, but the tension, dispelling the doubt, eliminating the expectation of rejection.

Bucky knows him well; it’s a tactic that’s familiar in its use, but recognition of being handled doesn’t mean the handling doesn’t work, not when you consented long ago to handling each other with care.

He exhales, then turns to his side, easing his shoulders under Clint’s arm, a warm weight that Clint’s happy to provide if it’s a sanctuary for Bucky like Bucky’s words are for Clint.

_Could I compare you to a summer’s day?_

_How can I when day ends and darkness comes?_

_Eternal sunshine, you’re an endless ray_

_A pulsing tempo that warms as it thrums_

_The seasons change, summer withers and fades_

_A momentary pause too quickly lost_

_A person by you never once knows shade_

_Winter won’t dare dust your doorstep with frost_

_June, July, August pass with regret_

_They leave when their shift ends, ready for change_

_Your sunlight never dims, not once, not yet_

_Commitment shines, a love with endless range_

_So long as I can breathe or arrows fly_

_So long lives this, you’re my heart and my sky_

Like something poetic, or maybe ironic in a good way, the sun chooses that exact moment to dip below the horizon, and the twilight that settles around them feels safe, secure, sincere. Clint doesn’t have the words that can compare Bucky to a season, but he knows that Bucky knows that he’s Clint’s sunshine and eternal strength, too, that it’s a reciprocal kind of thing they have, neither needing each other as though they couldn’t survive alone, but both always better for each other’s existence, more confident, more sure, more each their own person even as they twine closer and closer together.

* * *

When the day comes that they decide to step up to an altar, well, a metaphorical altar in the sense that they’re both seated together in front of someone with the power to tie their lives together in a legal commitment that mirrors the one they made to themselves long ago, Bucky doesn’t write or read poetry.

That he still saves for Clint’s eyes and Clint’s ears alone.

With both of their phones buzzing belligerently in their back pockets with the outraged explosions of teammates and best friends not alerted to their plans, with a line of other courageously invested couples collecting outside the door, with the compassionate face of a magistrate who recognizes love but doesn’t recognize Avengers smiling before them, Bucky doesn’t write or read poetry, but instead repeats the words fed to him rote and repetitive; he’s ready to move forward.

His own words, written with painstaking care and time, are saved for Clint and Clint alone.

But when the magistrate turns to Clint, expecting to repeat the process, eyes shifting to the next set of lines in the standard procedure, Clint interrupts him.

“No, no, I’ve got my own vows.”

Bucky’s expression flickers into wariness, concern, then quickly capers into humor and affection, smile quirking up, because even if this is unexpected, he knows by now that Clint would never do anything he didn’t want.

Clint clears his throat.

_Roses are red_

_Violets are blue_

_You’re really hot_

_And purple is better than blue_

“Oh, wait, no, hold up, that was a rough draft.” Clint’s gaze catches the twitch of Bucky’s hands next to him, his ears the ill-contained snort from the magistrate. He starts again. 

_Roses are red_

_Violets are blue_

_You’re still real fuckin’ hot_

_And I’ll always choose you_

The magistrate splutters a little bit, but Bucky’s laughter is worth a million stammering justices, an equal amount of ornery teammates, and all of the embarrassment Clint might feel at tip-toe teasing his way into his partner’s love language. Bucky reciprocates the role reversal, settling his palm on Clint’s thigh, recognition of who they are to each other, acceptance of a future of surprises, appreciation for the road they’ve traveled and the one yet to come.

**Author's Note:**

> don't squint too hard at the sonnet and you won't see that at least one of the lines isn't in iambic pentameter, shh, it's okay. 
> 
> also, s/o to [ indigonight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight/pseuds/IndigoNight) for sending [ this](https://bobbimorses.tumblr.com/image/643081358225408000) into the server today and thus giving clint a rough draft roses are red.


End file.
